


We May Never Pass This Way Again

by cartouche



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bond is on a suicide mission, Established Relationship, M/M, More angst, Poor Q, Trigger Warning: depression, and Q falls apart, at 5 am, why must I torture him so?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartouche/pseuds/cartouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond slips into his office at 6:46am and places an apologetic mug of tea on his desk. Q knows. He gets told later, officially by M, lines of type on heavy paper in manilla dossiers, but he already knows. </p><p>There's a good chance (89.54% of a chance) he won't be coming back. A suicide mission. </p><p>--<br/>James Bond is used to a life out running death by the skin of his teeth. Q isn't and doesn't think he ever will be. When James disappears on a mission he finds himself slowly falling apart without his favourite Double-Oh around to keep the demons away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We May Never Pass This Way Again

Bond slips into his office at 6:46am (early, by his standards) and places an apologetic mug of tea on his desk. 

Q knows. 

He gets told later, officially by M, lines of type on heavy paper in manilla dossiers (quaintly old fashioned), but he already knows. He can see it in the tightness of Bond's shoulders and the hidden sadness of his eyes and he knows. There's a good chance (89.54% of a chance) he won't be coming back. A suicide mission. Q breathes and thinks in algorithms and fails miserably to quell the flutter in his heart. The tea is sour and leaves a bitter tang in his mouth but he drinks it anyway. Might be the last one those calloused hands ever give him. He silently tells himself off for thinking thoughts like that, reassuring himself that this is 007, her Majesty's finest and the man with resurrection as a hobby. He'll come back, he always comes back. The dark whispers in his mind plant poisonous seeds.

He flies out at 12:22pm tomorrow. 24 hours. Q considers researching a way to stop time. Instead he sets his mouth in a straight, grim line and types and types and types until his fingers cramp up and his head spins. Bond uncharacteristically avoids Q branch all day, under the guise of training but Q knows what it really is, he feels it in his own knotted ball of worry sitting heavily, a lump of lead, in his stomach. He misses having him sprawled out over his couch or breaking the coffee machine or bothering the minions. It's almost like he's already dead. Q hates himself. 

He moves down to R and D and if he looks oddly detached no one comments. He spends 6 hours hunched over a workbench, designing the best possible gadgets for every scenario (just in case, he tells himself), but in the end he knows it's useless. Still it distracts him from what he should be thinking about and thats a good enough reason to do it. At some point a minion brings him tea. He lets it go cold because it's not from _him_. 

He considers smashing the mug before he remembers it's childish and messy. James would do it. Besides he always liked that mug. The ceramic is smooth and stone cold. Some masochistic part of him thinks _like dead skin_. He shakes his head and bangs it against the wall a few times for good measure. Minions scurry past the glass with wide eyes and closed mouths, no one daring to bother him. God bless his minions. 

Moneypenny finds him after a while. Her shoes clack and her suit is impeccable but her eyes are red rimmed. He convinces himself that the wetness clinging saltily to his cheeks is _not_ tears and stands shakily, cardigan rumpled and collar twisted. He can't remember sitting down. Eve tells him he's at the gun range, words clipped and fingers twitching. Fingers that pulled a trigger and shot Bond in Istanbul and he still came back. 89.54%. Q knows she knows and she knows Q knows. She clacks away and Q watches her stilettos on the hard flooring. The noise ricochets like gunfire. 

'Wasting my budget again Bond?' He calls to him in between clips and watches as he almost drops the Walther in shock. He'd been pumping metal into the target for the last five minutes, round after round after god damn round. Coping mechanism, it says on his psych eval. Q types, 007 shoots and all is right in the world. Except it's not and it won't ever be. He steps closer and feels ridiculous with the huge muffs dangling like some tribal jewellery around his skinny neck. Bond's eyes are like steel, but Q sees the fragility. This man is worn out, bones broken one too many times, skin a mess of scars, a little orphaned boy doing his best for Queen and country. Q wants to be angry, at the world, at himself, at James but he can't. It all just seems to click in some weird circle of death and life. Q is made for computers and lines of code and soldering irons. James is made for guns and charm and out running death by the skin of his teeth. It will always be this way. 

'Those bullets cost money you know.' James chuckles hollowly and the shells ring as they're crushed beneath his feet. 

'I won't be around much longer to waste your precious bullets Q.' He wants to slap him so he does. They both reel.

'Don't you dare.' He laughs again, bitter and tired, one hand clutching his reddening cheek. Q's voice is like fire and ice and he's so angry there are tears rolling down his cheeks, big and hot and pathetic. He doesn't protest when James wraps him in strong arms and envelops him in a suit jacket and lets him cry on his shoulder. He can smell him, gunpowder and scotch and expensive cologne and it's so painful it's almost physical, a knife stabbed into him and twisted violently. He's glad he disabled the cameras.  
They stand like that for a while until Q judders to a halt, snuffling into his lapels while warm hands smooth sweeping circles on to his back. He clings to James and James clings to him and Q wonders if the wet glaze over ice blue eyes is his imagination or not. They're both pathetic really. 

A dead man walking. 

The clock shows 10:52pm. Q baulks.

'I suppose dinner is out of the question?' James smiles and it's so soft and Q laces his slender fingers through hands made for killing, playing with long digits. 

'How about we order in?' Q nods shakily and smiles weakly back and convinces himself everything is fine. 14 hours, 89.54%. 

'Cantonese?'

'Of course.' Q wipes his face with his cardigan sleeves and unlocks the doors from his phone. James laughs. M chews them out a bit, but there's no force behind it, and Q can see his own worry in the clench of his jaw and the stiffness in his back. Military training. Coping mechanism.

They leave together and ignore the looks thrown in their direction. If, _when_ 007 returns, they're going to have a lot of awkward questions on their hands. Q doesn't think of what will happen if he doesn't come back. James fusses over the blotchy bruise forming on Q's forehead and reminds him that MI6 needs his brain cells and he can't go losing them hitting his head against walls. Q laughs but it's not quite there and Bond's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. They drive in silence and pick up Cantonese at the last open shop in London and the rain patters at the window like it always does in this god forsaken city. Q's never seen exotic lands filled with deserts and jungles and towering mountains. It's all James knows. They pick at the food in ~~his~~ their kitchen and leave it half eaten, growing cold. Silence shrouds them and Q hates it. He knows he should speak, say something, anything, but nothing appropriate springs to mind. James' lips taste of fresh air and desolation. Q kisses him like it's all he knows how to do, because really it is. 89.54%

They have slow, passionate sex, and it's everything Q needs. James touches him, a master of his craft, and Q arches like a virgin beneath him, unravelling in a way that would be embarrassing in front of anyone but Bond. 

Afterwards they sit in silence, legs tangled together, slow, even breaths, watching the dim lights seeping through the thick curtains and listening to the occasional swish of a car passing by. The murky darkness is comforting and Q finds himself lulled into a strange calmness, a sad kind of resignation, like there's no point in fighting anymore. He can't see icy blue eyes in the gloom, can't read them. James drinks whiskey straight from the bottle on the nightstand and lights a single cigarette. Q can't bring himself to be angry but he knows the room will stink for weeks. Maybe that's the point. Smoky kisses are fluttered along his hairline and down his neck. Q rests his head on a broad shoulder and curls in close to the solid warmth next to him, trying to commit every single detail to memory, every muscle and joint and exactly how his skin feels as it brushes against him. The red glow of the clock is like an agonising countdown. 3:11 am.

James asks for his real name. Q whispers it into the shadows behind his ear and threatens to kill him if he ever uses it. James smiles fondly. 

A dying man's last request. 

Q falls asleep tucked under his arm, fingers clutching desperately at what was going to be taken from him. If he wasn't afraid of flying he'd go with him, which is a lie. His mind sinks and his consciousness drowns in oblivion and he lets it, too tired, too dejected to care. James stares at the ceiling until the sun rises. 

\--

He's gone by the time Q wakes, bleary and aching. The debrief was early. He drags himself out of a cold bed and makes tea. The ball of worry tightens. He catches his hands stirring too viciously at the golden liquid, sending it slopping over the sides on to his counter and his shoulders shake. He wants to cry and yell and scream but he holds it in for the sake of his neighbours. He dresses in his oldest cardigan and doesn't attempt to tame his wild hair. It will piss James off but he wants the attention, craves it. He doesn't want him to go, but there is no other choice. Life is cruel. 

St Pancras is already jammed full of heaving bodies and Q hacks the Tube system just because he can. He stews on the train and emerges with a face like thunder. Even Eve quails a little when he storms past. He retreats to his office and destroys everything and anything he can get his hands on, methodically prising apart his laptop and separating it into its components. His minions skitter about outside, avoiding the glare he sends through glass panes. He wonders why James hasn't come to see him. How else was he supposed to give him his bloody life saving gadgets? He grabs the case and storms up the stairs, sending Tanner flying and everyone else parting like the Red Sea. 89.54%. His stomach heaves. 

James and M are having scotch when he enters, both immaculate and murmuring in hushed tones as if they were at a gentlemen's club. Suit jackets are thrown casually over the backs of chairs, fingers swirl liquid amber in crystal glasses, restless feet tap quietly. They stop and look at Q when he barges in. 

'Would you like a drink Quartermaster? You look pale.' 

_‘I'm always bloody pale!’_ He hisses, before dumping the slim black case on M's beautiful mahogany desk and storming back out, banging the door shut. Eve's mouth hangs open. Q tries to stay calm but he still ends up shouting at one of the interns for not making his tea right. There was only one person who could make it perfectly and he was currently being shipped off to his death. Q blinks and tells himself not to cry in front of MI6. He locks himself in his office and changes the windows to opaque. He rebuilds his laptop in a vain attempt to calm himself and only ends up with an ache in his back and a pounding head. Eventually he gives up, shuts off the lights and curls up in the corner by the door, relishing the blank darkness. 

At 10:36 a minion knocks timidly on the door. He doesn't grace them with an answer. 

At 10:41, Eve clacks up to the door and asks him if he's ok. He keeps his answers curt and robotic (and childishly stubborn). After a minute she sighs and walks away. 

At 11:03 Tanner's shoes squeak over the floor outside his door and they repeat the motions, _Everything ok? Yes, fine. Coming out soon? No._

At 11:17 a light huff indicates M is outside. He yells at him for a bit in a way that says he's just as tired and wants nothing more than for Bond to stay and then orders him out. His minions shuffle anxiously. Q calmly reminds M that he can shut down the entirety of the UK from his mobile if he really puts his mind to it. M huffs and walks away. 

Silence sings in his ears and echoes in his head. 

At 11:46 there is a light swish of fabric sliding down his door and a quiet thud of someone hitting the floor. No footsteps. Bond then (He doesn't call him James in a feeble attempt to preserve his heart.)

'Q, open the bloody door.' He slowly draws his knees up to his chest and ignores the tiredness in his smooth voice. 'Please, for me.' Q doesn't speak. The silence is deafening. 'You mean you are sending me out without a good luck kiss?' No response. A sigh. 'When I get back we are going to have dinner and talk about you threatening the head of MI6 with shutting down all of England.' He wants to laugh but all that appears are more tears. 'Q, please, I want to see you before I go. One last time, don't deny me that.' 

At 12 pm there is a light sigh and the shift of fabric as 007 stands again. Q pretends to ignore the whispered _ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy_ , but doesn't stop his own lips from moving, _ya tozhe tebya lyublyu_. He wonders how many of his minions speak Russian. James' smile radiates through the door, tinged with melancholy and Q jumps up and flings himself at Bond and drags him back inside the dark depths of his office by his lapels. He crushes him into a wall and kisses him with every last drop of emotion left inside his body. James doesn't resist. There's the click of a camera phone around the doorway and Q is going to destroy that phone and sack the owner, but later because he's too busy devouring his Double-Oh's lips. His lungs burn as he pushes away from Bond with a muttered _Good Luck_ and he ignores the smirk on bruised lips. He stalks to the bathroom and spends too long making himself look presentable before he strides back into Q branch and starts barking orders at men twice his age. The minions look relieved. M hovers in the doorway and nods at him. Q returns it gratefully. 

\-- 

Miles away from Q's little office buried underground, 007 has a gun pressed to his head and a bomb strapped to his stomach. 3 broken ribs, 4 fractured, a broken nose, 2 stab wounds and a gunshot through his calf. Countless cuts and bruises. Q stares at the dot on his map as if it holds all the answers to life itself. M is there, Moneypenny too, in fact most of MI6 seems to be crowded into the basement, watching with held breaths and nervous twitches. James laughs and chokes on his own blood. Another kick to his crotch. M has a team on standby but any more agents will blow it. His lacerations are poorly bandaged, crimson blood staining dirty rags. Q thinks back to Silva and shudders. He can't die, not like this, in some warehouse in a war torn country, without Q there to hold him. 

He doesn't realise he is crying until M places a hand on his elbow and carefully steers him out of the room, handing main comms over to a qualified minion. Q struggles, feebly, and gives in. 

They sit on the roof, feet dangling over the edge, watching the sluggish crawl of the Thames. The water is grey and Q half wonders what secrets lie at the bottom of its murky depths. An icy wind tears through his thin cardigan and he doesn't protest when M drapes his heavy jacket around his shoulders like a navy shock blanket, his own shirt whipping in the breeze. Q looks down and watches the cars fly past, and thinks about how easy it would be to simply wriggle an inch forward and topple into the abyss, his only comfort found in smooth concrete slabs. M gives him a look that makes him slither further back. 

He produces a small silver tin from somewhere, and flips it open, proffering the contents at Q. Cigarettes. He shouldn't, he'd packed that in during Uni, when life was one long nicotine patch after another. His willpower snaps and he takes one in shaking fingers, muttering thanks that are swept away on the wind. He thinks M understood anyway. He rolls the thin white tube in his hands, watching them tremble, and contemplates what his life has come to. He knows the dangers of the cig, its addictive quality, its danger, its fleeting existence (not at all like a certain agent), but he lifts it to his lips anyway, seeking solace and hope. They struggle to light them, the wind whipping away the lighter flame, but eventually the tip glows and Q drags slowly and exhales a puff of smoke, nicotine rushing to his head. M mirrors him silently. A black cab screeches along the road. 

'Do you love him Q?' The question comes out of no where and Q jolts, turning to look at Mallory whose eyes stay fixed firmly ahead. 

'I ... I ...' He fiddles with his fingers, staring at them as if they'll give him the words he needs. 'Yes, I suppose I do.' M smiles slightly and nods. 

'Good. I can't have someone breaking my best agent's heart.' He almost laughs. Almost. Of all the people he thought he'd get the speech from, M was not one of them. 'Or some agent breaking my Quartermaster. You understand the difficulties I presume. We still need him in bed with marks.' Q nods dumbly. How many times had James come back with scratches on his back, and finger shaped bruises, too small to be his? How many times had he listened on comms to James' flirting, handing the mic over when things got too heated? 

'I understand.' There is a long pause, stretched out by the drag of cigarettes.

'Do you know what he was doing in my office the other day?' He shakes his head. 'We were sorting out his will, just incase. I pulled a few strings and everything is going to you even though you're not married.' Q swallows and chokes back tears. M's gaze turns to him, softer than he ever remembers it. 'He asked me about resigning. He knew it is unethical to let relationships occur at work and he was going to give it all up for you.' Q's dam falters. One fat tear slips over his lashes and splashes onto the pavement 11 floors below. 'We talked and worked it through and I'm willing to allow it as long as you both keep it professional and it doesn't interrupt your work.' Gratitude surges through him and he wonders if it is inappropriate to hug his boss. He does it anyway, sobbing into his shoulder like a small child, and M just chuckles and holds him awkwardly. Q murmurs _Thank you, thank you, thank you_ until his lips are dry and his voice cracks. M hums and pats his back slightly. 'Just remember we have cameras everywhere Q. I don't want you two giving the monitors a show.' They chuckle weakly and Q rubs at his eyes and stubs out the ashy remains of his cigarette. 

There's a movement behind them and they both jump up, spinning around to see an ashen faced Tanner. 

'Sir, it's Bond. We appear to have lost him.' M swears in three languages and Q feels frozen with shock. He teeters on the edge of the roof, wind whipping up his hair and he thinks about how easy it would be. He leans back and feels the wind rock him and then there is a too tight grip on his elbow dragging him back. M glares and mutters something about _over dramatic Romeo and Juliet,_ leading back into the depths of MI6. Q thinks he should be offended but all he feels is an odd kind of numbness. He’s lead through a labyrinth of stark corridors, stumbling bleary eyed, the indistinct sound of talking muffled into a blur that is overlaid by the pounding of his heart. Every breath is a struggle and M fights to keep people from swamping him, drowning him. 

He’d never lost an agent before. Of course his first had to be Bond. 

The world is dull as he’s guided to a chair and pushed into it gently. He feels his heart wrench its way out of his chest and his ribs disintegrate in its wake. He feels his hands shake and his blood run cold and his senses dull.

\--

M commands him to take some time off. He takes the Tube back to his flat. The Cantonese is still sitting untouched on the table. Q could get angry but instead he sighs and throws it out. Then he collapses into oblivion. 

It takes him 2 days, 9 hours and 4 minutes to convince himself he needs to get out of bed, if only to shower and drink tea. The tea tastes wrong and Q laughs bitterly in his head. Then he remembers why and his hands shake and he gives up and crawls back into the comfort of his duvet. 

His body starts to shut down after 3 days 13 hours and 51 minutes. He lets it. Better to be dead.

It takes somewhere around 5 days (When did counting get so difficult?) for Eve and M to knock on his door. His legs give out when he gets out of bed. He shuffles out of his room and squints into the light. They both look haggard and worn but from the way they stare he knows he looks worse. Reluctantly he opens the door. Eve makes tea. No one drinks any. They sit in silence, a dead, stiff silence in ~~their~~ his kitchen and Q wonders where it all went wrong. He tries to recall the exact sound of Bond’s laugh and the exact pattern of scars on his skin and the exact number of shades in his blue eyes and fails. He tries to remember how to be a human and fails.

It takes him a week, a day, 6 hours and 22 minutes for him to walk back into MI6. The struggle was not an easy one. He can feel the weight of the stares on his back as he trudges along the corridors. He spends twelve hours sitting in his office staring at a wall before he gives up and goes home. 

The next day it’s a little easier. He makes an exploding pen and cries. 

He wonders if this how it is, getting over it. Maybe one day he’ll wake up and it will be so easy he’s forgotten the exact pitch of his voice. Maybe one day his heart won’t ache and his cheeks will be dry and he’ll have left it all behind. Maybe. M asks what he’d like to have done with his flat and Q tells him to keep it around, just for a bit longer. Maybe one day he could let it go, but not today. M gives him the date for the funeral. Q doesn’t cry, but his hands shake until he stuffs them inside the pockets of his cardigan. 

It takes him 2 weeks to stop counting. Life settles into a numb blur. Q sends more men than he cares to think about into the field and has regular meetings with M that end more often that not end with a cigarette and a finger of whisky. He works more overtime than there are hours in a day and nearly goes blind making gadgets. His minions avoid him at all costs. Q avoids mirrors at all cost. He sees his reflection enough in Eve’s face everytime he shuffles past. M asks if he'd rather leave. Q thinks he really would fall apart if he left. At least here he can bury himself in circuit boards and drown in lines of code. 

It’s dark by the time he stumbles up to his door, fumbling the key into the lock. The door swings open to the darkness of his flat and he staggers inside, heading into the kitchen. He pauses in the doorway, blindly feeling for the light switch. He flicks it on and shrieks. 

James Bond is in his kitchen. James Bond is not dead and in his kitchen. Their kitchen. There’s a bag on the table that smells suspiciously like food. 

He wonders if he's truly broken enough to start imagining dead men in his home. 

It takes Q 97 seconds to compose himself. Emotions boil inside him and threaten to bubble over. He takes a long calming breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth, and blinks for good measure. 

‘Hello Q.’ He’s going to hit him. He’s going to hit him and chuck him out. That’s what he deserves. Bloody perfect voice, as if he’d just stumbled out of bed and not resurrected himself from certain death. He’s going to hit him. ‘You look thin. Good job I brought dinner.’ _Kick him out,_ Q’s brain screams, _after all he put you through you’re going to let him waltz back in here and sweep you off your feet?_ His heart quails. James winces and he finally notices the deep red stains leaching through his torn shirt. 

He’ll hit him later. 

James feeds him mouthfuls of crispy fried noodles as he slowly patches him up, running his hands gently over every inch of sore skin. He can hardly believe he’s real. 3 broken ribs, 4 fractured, a broken nose, 2 stab wounds and a gunshot through his calf, Q thinks. He tends to them all, healing physical wounds. Bond runs his fingers through Q's hair and heals wounds that aren't so visible. He tells him he needs a haircut. Q tells him he made his bloody exploding pen so he'd better be fucking happy. At some point Q cries and James hold him close and he can feel his hands tighten when he feels how light Q is. They murmur reassurances to each other and Q chides Bond for ripping his stitches. He wants to laugh at how normal it all seems. James promises to never do that again. Some wise part of Q knows he will because he's _007_ , but his heart naïvely believes every word. He doesn't protest when he's lead into bed and they curl up fully clothed. He doesn't protest when James pulls him into his chest and places a wonderfully real arm over him, heavy and warm. He doesn't protest when soft kisses are fluttered over his lips and along his jaw. He doesn't protest even when he knows he should, when his eyelids are drooping and his body is traitorously tired. 

Instead he curls closer into his chest and mumbles, 'Tell me a bedtime story.' He feels terribly childish and terribly safe and overwhelmingly happy that he's alive and in his arms. James chuckles and brushes a few wisps of dark hair from his forehead. His voice is smooth and lulling as it flows over Q's ears and Bond tells him a story; of power hungry men and extravagant balls and clean cut suits. He tells him about dingy warehouses and the pain of broken bones and the threats and darkness. He tells him about escaping and how one thought alone made him keep going. He tells him about a week spent in dusty cabins and rough tree boughs, about stealing aeroplane tickets and the look the lady at the departures desk gave him. If Q thinks he made up the bit about overpowering a group of 50 trained henchmen with AK's while his right hand is tied behind his back, he doesn't say anything. 

'Why _do_ you keep coming back?' He whispers it into the protrusion of his clavicle, the fragile bones and shredded skin. James' nose brushes over his scalp and tingles race the shivers down his spine.

'I suppose I keep finding people worth living for.' 

Q falls asleep with a smile etched on to his lips. 

\--

When Q doesn't turn up for work the next day, M allows himself the luxury of panicking. He calls Eve who tells him she hasn't seen the Quartermaster yet, and abruptly puts the phone back in its cradle. He takes a minute to calm down before he alerts Tanner and begins to plan the best course of action. Having a Quartermaster kidnapped is a level 8 threat, but M is far more worried he's done something worse than get himself abducted. He'd watched him slowly fall apart after the L-H Pmu99 incident, a crumbling shell of the bright young man he had first met, full of ideas and fire. He had dared to think, over the past week, Q had been getting better. Perhaps he was hasty to judge that. 

Tanner suggests checking his home. It takes them 10 minutes to have a team travelling to his flat, search warrant in hand. It would have been 8 minutes if Eve hadn't tried to talk him out of personally leading the raid. M gives strict instructions. No sound, no unnecessary damage, no sloppiness. He doesn't need the extra attention.

The door opens with surprising ease. M creeps inside and prepares himself for the worst. The smell of cold Chinese and smoke clings to the air and the wooden floorboards creak ominously. The special-op team silently clears room after room until only the bedroom is left, M mentally prepares himself for the worst. He opens the door slowly and steps inside.

A smile flickers on to his lips and he lets out a short breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. 

Curled up in the bed are Q and 007. They both look worn, Q far too thin, and James' blood has been leaking on to the sheets somewhere, but they have never looked happier, big dopey smiles stretching their lips. He watches the slow rise and fall of their chests for a moment like a proud parent before leaving the room as quietly as possible. The SO's are huddled around the door trying to glimpse inside, and M has to shoo them out, closing the door behind him. 

Outside he texts Tanner.

_Change Bond's status to active duty._

He pauses before shaking his head and smiling. 

_And give him and Q some time off. God knows they deserve it._

**Author's Note:**

> It depresses me that I seem incapable of writing anything but angst. 
> 
> Ah well, at least it had a happy-ish ending.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hooe you enjoyed it! Comments are always gratefully received and replied too! :)


End file.
